


Hope We Can (Find a Way)

by mistynights



Category: Daughter of Smoke and Bone - Laini Taylor
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Death, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 13:51:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19110985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistynights/pseuds/mistynights
Summary: Snippets of Brimstone and the Warlord’s relationship throughout the years.





	Hope We Can (Find a Way)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fairleigh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fairleigh/gifts).



> Title from the song Easy to Please by Coldplay.  
> I tried not to make this fic too fluffy, but I may have failed terribly at that. Please forgive me if this wasn't what you had in mind.  
> Also, a small disclaimer. I read the books in Spanish, so I'm sorry if I got any terms wrong.  
> Anyways, I hope you still enjoy this fic. I really enjoyed working with this prompt, that's for sure.

Brimstone doesn’t look up from his work when he hears the sound of someone coming in. He’s in a mood, has been for some days. He hears Issa talking somewhere near the door, and someone else’s voice with hers, but he doesn’t want to focus on that one. He focuses on his work instead, and hopes to be left alone.

The newcomer’s steps as they near his table shatter his hopes.

With a sigh, he looks up. There stands the Warlord himself in all of his usual magnificence, a slight glint of amusement hidden amongst his otherwise serious features.

“I heard,” he says in a slow voice as he sits in front of Brimstone, “that you’ve been hiding in here.”

“It’s not hiding if others know where I am,” he grunts in reply. He feels Issa’s eyes on him for a moment—giving him a look that can only mean she’s got something to do with the Warlord’s sudden appearance at the shop—before she slips away, leaving the two of them alone.

The Warlord’s features seem to relax as the seconds pass. Brimstone has always marveled at how different he acts when it’s just the two of them. Another second passes before either speaks up.

“I haven’t seen much of you,” the Warlord begins just as Brimstone is about to ask what he wants. “I worried.”

“I’ve been busy.” It’s only a half truth, but Brimstone knows the Warlord can tell, can always tell. They’ve known each other for long enough. He looks down at the teeth he’s been organizing, tries to convince himself he’s not just doing it to avoid the Warlord’s eyes, the expression he knows will be there.

“We’ve all been busy, that’s hardly an excuse.” Years together allow Brimstone to see the hidden words, all that’s left unsaid— _I needed you, you’ve left me on my own—_ and can tell there’s more than just worry here. This is something much deeper, much older than that. Something that’s almost akin to hurt.

And truth be told, the Warlord’s hurt has always been something of a soft spot for Brimstone. It’s the reason he accepted to help, back in Astrae. It’s the reason he now looks around the shop to ensure they are alone and allows himself to bare his heart.

“I resurrected a warrior some days ago,” he says and knows, even without looking up that he has the Warlord’s complete attention, “barely more than a child. He never stood a chance against them. And I-”

He can’t finish, but they both know what’s being left unsaid, know that fear that takes over you, the what ifs, the insecurities. It’s a while before the Warlord replies. When he does, his voice is gentle.

“You brought him back. You are our resurrectionist and you brought him back, just like you’ve brought so many. You did your part. No one can ask more of you. Not even yourself.”

“And what happens when doing that isn’t enough? We get more each time, no matter how careful we are. What happens when doing my part isn’t enough to keep our people safe?”

The hand that takes his is rather unexpected but not unwelcome. Brimstone feels the gentle touch of battle-rough fingers around him—curled in such a way that make it clear they won’t be separating soon—and lets his own fingers relax into the touch before he is fully aware of what’s happening. It’s a familiar gesture, one that has made itself present through countless difficult moments, sleepless nights.

“You’ve done your part,” the Warlord repeats, a little firmer than before. And this time Brimstone has to look up, look at his eyes. “It may not seem like much to you, but it is. Our people are free, no longer in Astrae, and we’ve taken our lands back. We might still be at war, we might still be a long way from peace, but look where we are. Do you not remember how far away this seemed back then? You’ve given us an advantage over our enemies. And I trust, one day, you’ll find a way to bring real peace to our homes.”

Like it never happens with anyone but the Warlord, Brimstone finds himself at a loss for words. A long silence settles between them, but neither tries to force an end to it. They’ve learnt to navigate their silences.

Minutes pass before Brimstone organizes his thoughts enough to reply.

“Your trust puts a great responsibility over my shoulders, my friend. I fear I won’t be able to honor it.”

“You know my trust is hard to earn. And if I chose to give it to you, it’s because I find you deserving of it, don’t ever doubt that.”

Brimstone shakes his head, but there’s a laugh fighting its way from deep within him as they move into easier topics.

Their hands don’t separate until hours later, when Twiga returns from wherever he’s been. The Warlord takes this as his cue to leave and excuses himself. And if Brimstone seems to be in a better mood after that, none of his assistants are actually stupid enough to mention it.

***

Outside, he can still hear the sounds of celebration. He knows they won’t be stopping for many hours yet to come, but it doesn’t bother him as much as it should. Being inside, away from most of the noise, certainly helps.

The Warlord sits next to him, tracing the lines on a map and rereading reports with a concentrated look on his face. They are alone on the small sitting room, having left the party some hours ago at the Warlord’s request. Sometimes, Brimstone wonders if their people don’t have it all wrong when calling him the hermit.

Brimstone sets his gaze on the flickering flames, focuses on its warmth instead of the Warlord’s grumblings about plans. It’s been a long time since they’ve had an evening just the two of them, both too busy for anything more than a polite greeting. It’s funny, how they had more time for each other when they were prisoners trying to free their people.

The Warlord makes a frustrated noise, puts his papers away. Brimstone looks back up from the flames, little circles of light dancing in his eyes for a moment.

“Remind me to change whoever writes this reports,” he mutters, getting a huffed laugh from Brimstone. The Warlord’s eyes narrow.

“Isn’t this ball supposed to be in your honor, my friend? You should be celebrating, not working.” The Warlord gives him an unimpressed look that makes Brimstone smile softly.

“I should have left you out there,” he replies. An empty threat, of course. “See how you fare on your own.”

“Like you’d be able to do anything without me here.” That startles a laugh out of the Warlord. It doesn’t last long, as he turns back to his papers with a sigh. Brimstone frowns, puts a hand on the Warlord’s back. “Leave it. The papers will still be there in the morning. Tonight, we celebrate you.”

Brimstone can feel the Warlord’s hesitation under his hand, but he finally turns to look at him again. His back is tense, rigid for almost a minute before he relaxes slightly.

“I never thought I’d hear you talk about celebration.”

“Well, don’t get used to it,” he replies and walks toward the sitting room’s door. He doesn’t need to turn to know the Warlord is following.

***

Brimstone watches Madrigal die from afar and it hurts deep inside him. Even when he knows her soul is safe, that he can give her a second chance, it hurts. Even when he’s sure there’s nothing he could have done to prevent this. It hurts to watch, but he still forces himself to do it, knowing Thiago will get suspicious if he isn’t there.

His one defiance to the Wolf is to not stand next to him and the Warlord, staying far away instead. It’s not much, certainly not enough to save Madrigal, but it’s something. It will, at the very least, annoy Thiago to no end.

He’s gone the moment he knows she’s dead. He doesn’t need to stay for the rest. Doesn’t _want_ to stay. He can always talk about his busy work if Thiago decides to bother later.

It’s not Thiago who comes visit, but the Warlord, well into the night. He enters the shop and quickly moves out of Issa’s reach, who’s been sulking all day. Smart. Even Brimstone shudders at Issa’s sulks.

“Did you need something?” Brimstone asks, voice dry and unfriendly.

“You need to rest. I’m here to take you outside.” The answer makes Brimstone frown. From somewhere at the front of the shop, he hears someone hiss. Probably Issa, but he wouldn’t put it past Twiga.

“I’m not in the mood for a walk.”

“I’m not asking for your mood, old friend.” And maybe it’s the seriousness that bleeds from his tone—real seriousness and not just his usual facade—what makes Brimstone look up with a frown. The Warlord looks almost smug as he turns to leave, knowing without a doubt that Brimstone will follow.

Which he does, to the great astonishment of Issa and Twiga.

Outside, the Warlord takes him far away from his shop. They are almost at the Temple of Ellai—and isn’t that just a sick thing to do—when he speaks up.

“You’ll be happy to know the seraph escaped.”

“But she didn’t,” he replies. The Warlord’s answering sigh is the only sound around them for several minutes.

“I would ask you to be cautious about what you do next.” Brimstone is almost surprised at the Warlord’s words. Almost. But they know each other to the point that it’s near impossible for one of them to lie to the other.

“Did you bring me all the way here to tell me not to?”

“I’d be a fool if I even tried.” A hint of amusement tints the Warlords words. Were the situation any different, Brimstone would have probably laughed. “You must know I would have stopped it if I could.”

“If anyone could have put an end to it, that was you, my friend,” he says, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“Thiago would have started a revolt had I intervened. Nothing would have changed except it would be my head rolling along with hers.” Brimstone frowns. It’s a fair argument, a truthful one. And it bothers him just how much power Thiago has over all of them, over the Warlord of all people. It makes him feel powerless, like few things ever do.

“So what then?” Brimstone asks after a long pause. The Warlord turns to look right at him, settles a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll wish you luck, and ask you again to be careful.” The seriousness is back on his voice, but it’s a gentle kind of seriousness. Brimstone sets his hand atop of the Warlord’s, nods his head yes. He’s still angry, but there’s hope for him now. Hope that this might work, that he can give Madrigal a second chance, that Thiago won’t be ruler for many years to come still.

***

Brimstone wakes to hands on his back, tracing lazy patterns into his naked skin, and the sound of the door closing behind someone. He’s tucked against a familiar figure, tangled in a mess of bed sheets and pillows. The warmth around him is also familiar, but it’s been so long, it almost feels like a dream. It’s been too long, and Brimstone wishes things weren’t so complicated right now, wishes he could truly enjoy the moment.

He keeps his eyes closed, focuses on the Warlord’s steady breathing instead of the thoughts that circle his mind. What good will come from thinking of their end?

“You are awake.” The Warlord’s words are soft, barely more than a whisper. Brimstone thinks of battlefields and blood, of secrets too precious to risk anyone finding out about them. “I’d hoped you’d sleep longer.”

Brimstone doesn’t need to open his eyes to settle his hand just over the Warlord’s heart. He counts a dozen beats before he can feel all sleep leaving him.

“What did Twiga say?” Because it had to be Twiga who woke him up. No one else would have come after. Everyone else is preparing.

“We have a couple hours before it starts, at most.” Brimstone nods, counts another eight beats before freeing himself of their embrace to sit up on the bed. The Warlord doesn’t try to stop him, but doesn’t move either.

He looks around the room, unsure of what to do. This is what they’ve been waiting for, what they’ve stayed behind for. He’s made his peace with what’s to come, he’s said his goodbyes. And yet.

He dreamt last night, after they both finally fell asleep, that they found another way. It’s been a long time since his dreams made him want to hide from the world. But this is no time for hiding. They have to do it, for their people, for the future of the chimeras. It’s a sacrifice they have to make.

A hand settles over the side of his face, gentler in its touch than ever before.

“I too wish things were different,” the Warlord says, his words making Brimstone startle. He hasn’t heard something like this since before they left Astrae. Normally, Brimstone’s the dreamer, the thinker, the one who isn’t content.

Brimstone wants to reply, he really does. He wants to find the words to tell him things will be different, once they are gone. He wants to say that this sacrifice will bring a new life to their people.

But he can’t find the words. They get stuck in his throat and refuse to leave. So instead he puts his hand over the Warlord’s and closes his eyes. There’s a pit growing within him, and he knows only death can end this pit now. Lucky him.

***

Brimstone can barely keep his head up, blood and pain mixing to keep his gaze down. Everything hurts; the hands keeping him in place, the cuts and bruises from the fight, his head, from a particularly accurate punch. Everything hurts.

And it hurts to be like this, because he wants to look up one last time, wants to gaze into those familiar eyes for the last time before it’s all done.

He can tell where the Warlord is, though, knows it deep within his soul. He can hear his every breathing, difficult and sharper with each intake. He can feel the slight shifts in the air that come with every exhale. He can feel the Warlord’s blood, running wild and coating everything with a metallic taste. It’s a small consolation, he supposes, to be able to tell so accurately what’s happening to him without having to look.

A small part of Brimstone wishes he didn’t know, because, with all this knowledge, comes also the awareness of the pain the Warlord is in. And no amount of his own hurt will ever compare to what he feels knowing this.

Once, too long ago, the two of them made a promise to each other that no hurt would ever come upon the other. It was a stupid promise, made in the calm just before the greatest fight either had ever seen. It was a stupid promise, but a promise they manage to more or less keep. Until now.

There’s a selfish thought, small as thoughts can be, swimming around Brimstone’s head. Has been since they decided to follow this plan. A small thought that whispers into his mind, now more than ever, and makes him wince a little in shame. A small, selfish thought that wishes he can be the first to die, because he doesn’t think he can stand watching the Warlord go first.

It’s stupid, just like those old promises had been. They are both so old, have been through so much, and yet this is what breaks Brimstone.

Around them, he can tell Joram is speaking, has been for some time. But Brimstone can’t bring himself to understand what’s being said. A mixture of pain and his mind’s noise keep his attention far away.

If he tries really hard, narrows his eyes and stretches his neck, he can make out the Warlord’s shadow in front of him. Further away, he can see blood. It stains the floor, dark and quickly drying, and feels the air with a metallic smell that mixes with that of ash and fire.

The Warlord says something, then Joram, then himself. To Brimstone, it all happens in a daze. He manages to look up when he speaks, to focus his gaze on the seraph. But it’s not him Brimstone wants to look at. And so his gaze travels, with difficulty, to meet the Warlord’s.

He sees the final blow reflected in the Warlord’s eyes rather than feel it. There’s no real pain, everything is too fast for that, but he can almost taste the desperation in the Warlord’s figure. He feels himself being ripped from his body, and wonders if this is what everyone feels like, wonders if it’s always so overwhelming. He can’t see very well the world of the living now, but he can see the Warlord’s figure well enough. Brimstone can see him trying to throw himself at Joram, trying to avenge his death even when the Warlord himself is dying. He can see when Joram delivers his deadly blow.

Brimstone once thought, long ago, that the dead were freed from the grief of the mortals. He now knows he was wrong.


End file.
